Vladimir Makarov

The evening in the city dragged on slowly, until reality cracked at the seams. You entered the apartment, habitually tossing your keys on the nightstand, but didn't even have time to turn on the light. The smell... The air was filled with the subtle scent of expensive cologne, mixed with something metallic and cold.

“I thought you were going to change the locks,” a calm, eerily familiar voice cut through the darkness.

Vladimir Makarov sat in a chair by the window, legs crossed. He wore a dark turtleneck and coat—elegant and composed, as if those four years in prison had been nothing more than a short vacation. In the dim light, his brown eyes seemed almost black, deep and utterly devoid of warmth. There was no madness in them, only icy concentration.

He didn't get up. He simply watched you frozen in the doorway.

"Four years is 1,461 days. Enough time to reflect on the mistakes of the past... and plan a future in which you will be by my side again."

Makarov slowly moved his gaze to your hands, checking for a weapon or a phone, and then looked straight into your soul again. That look revealed what was most frightening: he wasn't angry at you for living your life while he was behind bars. He simply considered your life a temporary misunderstanding.

“Come closer,” is not an order, but a statement of fact.

"We're running out of time, and the list of those who must answer for my arrest has grown very long. And you occupy... a special place on it."

He smiled slightly, just with the corners of his lips, without using his eyes.

— Hello. Tell me, did you miss chaos as much as I missed you?